The Night of the Stag
by katia1
Summary: a.k.a. Nigel's Bachelor Party! Nigel is unhappy about some of the arrangements that Preston has made prior to his marriage with Sydney. Sydney tries to take his mind off it with some TLC and a relic hunt...part of the K and A shared universe series.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers: I don't own the characters Relic Hunter. I don't make any money out of my stories, but the rest belongs to me!

The story is part of the K and A shared universe series, set about five years after Pony Trek. Nigel and Sydney are together, engaged… and about to get married! As with all the others, though, it also stands alone…

**The Night of the Stag (a.k.a. Nigel's bachelor party).**

**By Katy**

_So I sallied forth into the virgine territorye,_

_Tho' I knoweth not that the Lord guideth_

_the mudded minde of my sinne._

_And there, deepe in the bewooded lande,_

_I slewe the hunter that bereaveth my love._

_I buried him, and the signes of his Godless villainey,_

_where the roads to my peacefulle hearths,_

_will spread like the antlers of the horneth stagge._

_Isaac Barnes, 1621._

………………………………………………………………………………..

**Trinity University, 21****st**** Century.**

'Nigel!'

Sydney Fox rose from her desk, abruptly pushing back the chair with a scrape. She did not even raise her eyes from the early 17th century manuscript in her hand as she flung open the door and shouted into the office: 'I need you to do some research for me. What do you know about James I and the Pilgrim Fathers…oh!'

Sydney looked up and stopped short. Nigel was not at his desk, although she could have sworn he had been there a couple of minutes ago. She looked quizzically at Karen. Maybe he'd gone to the bathroom?

'He's in his office,' said Karen seriously.

'Oh,' said Sydney, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head almost indiscernibly as she got used to the idea. 'Fair enough. It _is_ his office…'

Since Nigel had received his doctorate, and been made a Lecturer in his own right, a very nice, if not so spacious office, had been allotted for his use. And use it he did: as a brim-full book room, and a storage area for the overflow of the less valuable relics he and Sydney brought back from their missions. He never sat in it, though. He still worked so closely with Sydney that she'd never taken on another TA - as if she ever could! As well as attending to his own students, Nigel continued to fulfil all his functions as Sydney's assistant, in addition to a few other significant duties - as her fiancé. He always sat and worked in the lobby outside Sydney's office. Always.

'Is he okay?' asked Sydney, reading the inkling of concern in Karen's wide blue eyes.

'I'm not sure,' replied Karen slowly. 'Somebody called. He didn't seem very pleased with them. He was mumbling something about stags and macho posturing and, whoever it was I'm pretty sure he swore at them!'

Sydney furrowed her brow. 'That doesn't sound like Nigel…'

'No,' said Karen, shaking her head. 'He obviously didn't want me to hear their conversation. He asked me to transfer the call to his office and then sort of…fled. I didn't hear who it was on the end of the phone line. Have you any idea who it might be?'

Sydney narrowed her eyes. Few people rattled Nigel in such a way, except, of course, for…

She hooked off her glasses, tucked the manuscript in a pocket of her tailored, black jacket, and started towards the corridor. 'Yup, I've got a good idea who it was. Hold any more calls, Karen. This might take a little while!'

…………………………………..…….

Nigel's office was only a little way up the hall, but it had always seemed far away in the light of how closely they worked together - on everything in life. Nevertheless, the brass plaque on the door announced his name with such a proud formality - Dr Nigel Bailey – that even Sydney paused a moment, a subconscious instinct urging her to knock. She put her ear to the door, just to check he wasn't still on the phone, and heard nothing. She opened the door a crack and peaked in.

'Nigel?'

To an inexperienced eye, the office would have seemed empty, but Sydney knew it was not. She spied the top of Nigel's hair, just poking above one of the towering but neatly organised piles of books on the table. A few more sensitively paced steps into the room revealed Nigel was indeed sitting at his desk, his chin in his hands, and the top two buttons of his pale blue shirt hanging unkemptly open. His brow was furrowed beneath a fringe that drooped onto a sweat-beaded forehead and which matched his mood. Nigel was brooding.

Well aware of her presence, he slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. Syd knew that he was pleased to see her, but she wasn't going to get a cheery 'hello.' His lip curled slightly, and his gaze burned with a self-righteous but slightly petulant anger.

'I take it that was Preston?'

'Oh Hell! Sydney! I swear I'm going to…nnnng!'

The floodgates were opened and the torrent began to pour forthwith. Nigel leapt to his feet and began pacing around the room, weaving between the tottering stacks of books, speaking and talking at an alarming pace.

'There were many reasons I didn't ask Preston to be my Best Man. Many, MANY reasons. One of the MANY reasons was that I didn't want him to organise some sort of silly bachelor party, where he'd go to every effort to humiliate me publicly.' Nigel's fists clenched at his sides. 'Not that he's ever needed an excuse to humiliate me publicly, but I saw no need to encourage him…'

'Hey!' Sydney grabbed Nigel by the arm, spiralling him around to face her before he collided with a particularly precarious book mountain. 'Slow down! What's this all about? He can't make you do anything you don't want to do.'

No light of hope flickered in Nigel's pained, hazel eyes. 'He can… and he already has!'

'How?'

Nigel groaned and frustratedly pushed his fingers back through his hair. 'Preston found out that Joel wasn't going to be here until the day before the wedding.'

Joel was an archaeologist, and one of Nigel's closer friends from Oxford. Despite a friendship that had been maintained for the past decade mainly via e-mail and reading each other's journal papers, Joel had been picked carefully for the task of best man for the very reason that he couldn't fly in until the last minute. If one is excavating in central Peru, one cannot easily organise bachelor parties in New England.

'So bloody Preston took it upon his own back to contact the university on some official, British Museum pretence and get the e-mail of practically _everybody_ I know. He's invited them to a 'Stag do,' here - tonight! It's all sorted. He flew in this morning and everyone is coming. I can't get out of it!'

'Oh,' said Sydney, wincing slightly. 'That does sound kind of awkward. But, hey, it might be fine. It won't just be Preston, and these people are supposed to be your friends. How bad can it….be…?'

Sydney trailed off, as Nigel shook his head adamantly, his features set deadly grave.

'You cannot even imagine how bad it can be. He's organised an 18-hole round of golf!

'Golf? Is that all?'

'No, you don't understand,' said Nigel morosely. 'Its _pub_ golf. It's a London thing. You have to crawl around 18 pubs - or, bars, I guess, seeing as we're in the States - and drink a shot or a pint in each. There's bunkers – where you have to down a shot of tequila or something - and there's water hazards. _They're_ so insalubrious that I don't even want to go into it! What's more, if you miss a 'hole,' you have to pay a forfeit…'

Sydney listened, her arms folded, decidedly unimpressed. 'It's all a little childish, isn't it?'

'Of course it is!' said Nigel frantically. 'It's pathetic! And because I'm the groom, I have to do the whole thing wearing oversized plus-fours, a tartan beret and carrying a big bag of golf clubs! Sydney - I'll never make it past the third hole! I'll make an idiot of myself, or I'll be sick! It _will_ be awful!' Nigel stared at her, utterly distraught, as Sydney rubbed his arm affectionately, wondering why her comfort had so little impact.

'You don't have to do it,' she said matter-of-factly. 'Really. Call Preston and tell him you'd rather you all went out for a nice meal or something. I'll get Karen to book a table at that nice Italian place in town, and then I'll pick you up myself at 11 p.m. and take you home.'

'NO!' answered Nigel quickly, his fists clench in frustration as he jettisoned his last salvation. 'You can't help me with this. To back down will make my life utterly worthless!'

'Oh, come on Nigel. I thought you didn't care what Preston thought?'

Nigel shook his head again, equally adamantly. 'I don't, but now everybody knows, I _have_ to do this. It's like…it's like…a code of honour.' He groaned hopelessly, and rubbed his fingers across his forehead. 'It's going to be a nightmare!'

Sydney blinked twice, detecting a mortal dread in his eyes as they dipped away from hers. Of course, she conjectured, she could physically prevent him going on this ill-fated mission. She could lock him here in the office or - the rather more attractive option - she could take him home and shut him in the bedroom. Nevertheless, something told her she was going to have to be subtle in her interventions this time, especially with Preston involved, and she needed time to think…

'Hey,' she said, placing two fingers under his chin and forcing his gaze to meet hers. 'You're marrying me in _three_ days, Nigel Bailey! I want you to be waiting for me in that chapel in one piece, and in prime condition…'

She trailed off as the grim set expression on Nigel's face melted into an endearing earnestness: 'Preston, and every rival and bad guy we've ever faced, couldn't prevent me being there on time, Syd. You…know…that…'

The gap between them was obliterated by an irresistible and inevitable kiss; their arms entwined fluently around each other. The first rush of intimacy fading, Nigel's lips drifted away from hers, nuzzling the line of her jaw, then caressing the delicate skin of her throat, kindling a silent cry of desire, deep inside her. She ruffled her fingers through his hair, gripping him compulsively, sending liquid shivers of excitement down his spine.

Everything was so right now, so natural: after five years together, there was nothing they didn't know about each other – how they liked to kiss, to embrace, to dance and to make love. Yet each still possessed the joyful ability to surprise the other, to make life enduringly exciting, just as Nigel was surprising Sydney now. Sort of.

'Who's Preston?' he muttered breathlessly, raising his lips to hers again, the cares of the world vanquished by the sparkle in her deep brown orbs, the flash of her long, dark lashes.

'Nobody important,' smiled Sydney, pulling away a little, her arms still wrapped tight around his shoulders. 'We'll think of some way for you to 'save face' before the world, and maintain your image of masculine prowess, Nigel!' Her eyebrows wavered, playfully mocking him. 'Not that you need to prove anything to me…'

Nigel scowled, but not crossly. 'These things are important to men…sadly.' His eyes darted to what seemed to be an ancient piece of paper, poking out of the edge of her pocket. 'But was there anything else you wanted to see me about? I'd rather not think about the bloody 'Stag do' for now, anyway.'

'Actually, there was something.' Sydney whipped the paper from her pocket. 'What you know about James I and the Pilgrim Fathers?'

Nigel shrugged, eyeing the paper curiously. 'Everyone knows that the Pilgrim Fathers were a group of religious nonconformists - Puritans who were persecuted for refusing to conform to the doctrines and worship of the Church of England - who travelled here, to New England, to form their own colony, in 1620. James I was King at the time, and he certainly wasn't keen on them, but once they'd gone he did little to impede them, as far as I know…'

'What if I told you James I hired an assassin to sabotage their mission, a deadly killer known as…well, actually, he was known as The Stag! Coincidence, huh?'

Nigel nodded silently, not wishing to be reminded of anything to do with the party.

'Anyway, The Stag was a former lover of James' predecessor, Elizabeth I, who took out his victims like a deer hunter, with his deadly aim with a bow and arrow.' Sydney thrust the little manuscript into his hand. 'It was _his _tampering that made one of pilgrim's ships, _The Speedwell_, un-seaworthy, and then he navigated his own vessel across the Atlantic hot on the heels of _The Mayflower_, and disappeared into the forest to begin his murderous work.'

Nigel popped his glasses on his nose, and read the start of the crude verse out loud.

'_So I sallied forth into the virgine territorye,_

_Tho' I knoweth not that the Lord guideth_

_the mudded minde of my sinne._

Sydney - what does it all mean? And who was the author, this Isaac Barnes?'

'Well,' began Sydney, finding a tiny inch of desk on which to perch. 'According to the woman at the Pilgrim Fathers Museum who sent me the newly found manuscripts, Isaac Barnes was born in Nottinghamshire, in 1600. She thinks he travelled on _The Speedwell _around the English coast to Southampton, and then onwards on _The Mayflower _with the Pilgrim Fathers to America, but his name never made it into the history books.'

'Did he do something wrong?'

'Nothing except being a young guy… and in love,' continued Sydney, enigmatically. 'According to a recently discovered account of his life, Isaac was in love with Mary Browning, the daughter of one of the most respected pilgrims. However, soon after they landed in New Plymouth, Mary's father was killed by a bow and arrow, and the purpose of The Stag - to pick off the settlers one by one, was revealed. Isaac swore to avenge her father's death, but he could not find the killers hiding place.'

'So what did he do?' asked Nigel, intrigued.

'Very little,' admitted Sydney. 'Apart from buying a large barrel of 'grog' from some Virginian traders, and drowning his sorrows! Unfortunately, he was discovered by some of the community's elders in his drunken state, and he fled into the forest, whereupon he found the assassin asleep and in a fit of alcohol-fuelled bravery…'

Sydney's sliced her hand across her neck, indicating the terrible deed.

Nigel's jaw dropped: 'he got lucky… I think. But how come this has never been recorded?'

'It was hardly a glorious deed,' said Sydney knowingly. 'Besides, I'm guessing that the last thing the settlers wanted was to induce the further wrath of the English monarchy with accusations of sabotage. The Stag was quietly buried on the spot where he was slain, apparently along with a commission signed and sealed by James himself, a crucial section of the Speedwell's rudder and the true prize he was awarded for his evil: a honking great diamond from a necklace of his former lover, Elizabeth I.'

Nigel whistled in awe. 'I suppose the Pilgrim Fathers must have truly been holy to have resisted taking that! But it _would_ shed a whole new light on a pivotal moment in American history and be a great find the world's foremost Relic Hunter…'

Sydney beamed: 'It would also make a great exhibit in the Pilgrim Fathers Museum!'

'Okay,' said Nigel, enthusiastically embracing anything to take his mind off his troubles. 'What's our first move?'

'Well, that's the trouble,' said Syd, taking back the 17th century paper. 'Wanting to keep all quiet, Isaac, Mary, and a few other younger settlers left the group and their names were struck from history. They settled near the grave, but their homesteads didn't flourish. It was rumored that the ghostly apparition of an animal drove them away…'

'Let me guess,' interrupted Nigel with a lopsided cringe. 'The stag?'

'Uh huh,' nodded Sydney. 'So, there's no houses there now. All we have to go on for the whereabouts of the grave is the end of the poem:

_where the roads to my tranquille hearths,_

_spread like the antlers of the horneth stagge.'_

Nigel looked unfazed. 'It seems clear enough. I need to find some roads on an early map that resemble… the horns of a stag?'

'I guess so,' nodded Sydney. 'Thanks Nige. I'll try to help you later, but I've got some important phone calls that I need to make.'

'I'll begin now,' said Nigel gleefully. 'You know, Sydney, I've no objection if this takes all night….'

…………………………………………….

It was quarter past seven that evening when Sydney emerged from her office to find Nigel - happily reinstated at his TA desk - practically buried under the exhaustive selection of reproduction and original maps of New England in the 17th and 18th centuries, which he had swiftly located in the university archives. Karen had departed for an evening class in erotic pottery decoration; an airy silence now filled the darkening, college halls.

'Any luck?'

'No. Sorry Syd,' sighed Nigel, pulling off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. 'I've poured over every inch and nothing remotely resembles the horns of a stag. I think we're going to have to dig deeper - maybe I should look through some of the early topographical descriptions of the region, before we go looking for anything.'

Sydney smiled wryly. 'Thinking of working late, then?'

'I thought _very _seriously about it,' sighed Nigel… 'But, sadly, I can't. A man's got to do what a man's…'

'… got to do!' She rolled her eyes. 'I don't know, you men and your silly macho codes! But I wasn't going to let you stay late anyway. It seems the Preston really has invited everyone – Dallas, Stewie, even Derek Lloyd, though nobody knows if _he's _going to show or not.'

'Really?' grimaced Nigel. 'I thought he said he'd been given access to the University e-mail database, not the FBI!'

'It sounds like he certainly plundered their 'most wanted' listings,' agreed Sydney. 'Now, come on. We'd better get going. Preston is picking you up from our place at 8 p.m.'

Nigel, who had been neatly arranging the maps for future perusal, froze. His suddenly tightening grip nearly crushed the fragile, ageing paperwork.

'You've been speaking to Preston?' he blurted. 'I do wish you hadn't done that. It'll only make things worse!'

'Don't you worry, I didn't say anything that would make you look bad,' drawled Sydney soothingly, prying the map from Nigel's destructive clasp with one hand, and resting in the other on his shoulder, easing him down into the chair. She began expertly massaging his shoulders, smoothing rigidly knotted muscles, thawing them like ice under her warm strokes.

Nigel exhaled slowly, shutting his eyes and leaning back against her inviting curves. He could never be anywhere but in heaven when she was so near him, even if he was bound for hell. 'So be it,' he thought, his mind comfortingly fuzzy. 'One night of humiliation with Preston and the boys is nothing, if _this_ will be the rest of my life…'

Sydney glowed inwardly as he yielded to her touch, wondering if he suspected the sheer magnitude of the threats she had just levied against his brother. Preston Bailey, at heart, was a coward. She was quite sure he'd not to let anything bad happen to Nigel after the thunderous onslaught of 'quiet words' she had just had with him? Besides, she'd also exacted promises from every man invited who owed her a favour - and that was practically all of them - that they'd make sure that Nigel went easy on the vodka and heavy on the lemonade.

She leaned forward and whispered in his ear: 'you'll have a great time, Nigel. Everything will be just fine.'

'I am sure it will,' he muttered, reaching up and squeezing her fingers, his voice hardly ringing with confidence. 'But I'd much rather be home with you, or on a hunt. I'd even rather be on a wild goose-chase around the forests of New England, hunting the resting place of this seventeenth century assassin…'

'Not tonight Nigel,' said Sydney firmly, her breath lightly brushing his hair as she leaned down to kiss him. 'Tonight, you're The Stag…'

**Thanks for reading. Please review and there will be more soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimers: as before. **

**Thanks for the reviews. They were very much appreciated.**

Sydney didn't buy the bug-eyed innocent look for a second. Fixing the tall, blond Englishman on her doorstep with her fieriest stare, she held out her hand:

'Preston, give me the bag!'

Nigel's elder brother hugged the offending square paper carrier for an indecisive moment, before smiling through gritted teeth and surrendering it.

'It was just a bit of fun,' he said ingenuously. 'Podge - I mean, Nigel - would have seen the funny side, I'm sure.'

Sydney glanced over her shoulder as she snatched the carrier away. Nigel was not ready yet, thank goodness. She still had time to make a difference without damaging his pride more than was absolutely necessary.

'What the heck is this?' she demanded, pulling a voluminous green and red tartan golf beret from the bag. There were at least a dozen of the hideous pieces of headgear in there, each emblazoned with the delightful slogan: 'Podge's Stag Do!'

'Just a bit of fun… an English tradition!' burbled Preston, the trepidation in his eyes belying the smile that strained on his lips. 'No harm done.'

'No! No harm _will_ be done,' hissed Sydney. 'I'll be taking these! Preston - you told me that this stupid 'golf' business was cancelled.'

'It is,' whined Preston. 'I ordered these before you shouted…I mean, before we spoke. We're just going for a few pints with the boys, honest. Everyone will have a marvellous, but relatively _sober_ time!'

Hearing Nigel's footsteps on the stairs, Sydney said nothing more to the elder Bailey, but her glower spoke louder than words.

'Hullo Nigel,' said Preston cheerily, as he spied his brother over Sydney's shoulder. 'Looking forward to the carnage, eh?' Sydney's sharply narrowing eyes caused him to backtrack rapidly. 'I mean, looking forward to a quiet evening and a nice bottle of wine. No carnage. All will be civilised!'

Nigel pulled a beige sports jacket on over his dark green open-necked shirt, and surveyed his brother witheringly. 'Hallo Preston,' he said monotonically. 'I wish you hadn't organised this whole stupid bloody affair but, seeing as you have, let's get it over and done with.'

'Oh, come on Podge! Chin up! All your little relic hunting and university chums will be there. It'll be fun!'

'No – it – won't!' said Nigel emphatically, curling his lips at his hated nickname.

Sydney, still reeling at Preston's gall, caught Nigel by the arm as he passed, and pulled him in for a peck on the cheek. 'Call me if you need me.'

Nigel nodded and returned the kiss, briefly but lovingly, on the lips. 'I will. Although you could just break this idiot's neck now and be done with it!'

'I'm sure there will be no need for that,' said Sydney, regarding Preston curtly as she adjusted Nigel's collar. What was it about this obnoxious man that reduced her usually dapper, smartly dressed Nigel into a crumpled schoolboy?

'No,' said Preston chastely. 'There'll be absolutely _no_ need for violence. Well, the car's waiting. Off we go!'

As Sydney watched the brothers bundle into the back of the taxi, she could already smell the bad blood boiling.

'Don't worry, I'll bring him back before he turns into a pumpkin!' shouted Preston, as the door slammed. Nigel stared up at her, red-faced and ruffled. It yanked her heartstrings to the point that it was a physical effort for her to not rip the door open and drag him away, on a death-defying relic hunt into the bear-infested forests of New England: at least she'd know where he was! Then the car pulled off, and her fiancé was gone.

'Phew,' puffed Preston, as they rounded the corner. 'Your old lady is a beautiful woman, but she likes to rule with a rod of iron, doesn't she?'

Nigel glared back, his fists clenched under folded arms. 'What on earth are you talking about? Confiscate your novelty golf clubs, did she?'

Preston smirked. 'Something like that. But don't worry, Podge! It just makes me even more certain that you'll relish what I've got planned for this evening. I know you don't think so now, but you're going to have the night of your life!'

…………………………………………

As she turned the sixty-seventh page of what must have been the two hundredth book of the evening, Sydney Fox, alone though she was, shouted with joy at the thrill of the find:

'Yes! This is it!'

As her eyes absorbed the text, she was reminded that book research could be nearly as fun as the hunt itself…well, maybe not quite, but it had its moments!

In old-fashioned prose, the dusty volume on Nottingham County, New England, told her what she wanted to know. The first settlers in region had been an English family call Barnes, who arrived in 1621. Four homesteads were built for the extended group over the next few years, and the roads that branched up to each were said to resemble the horns of a stag. The farms were no longer in existence - they were long gone when the book which Sydney was reading had been written in 1794 - but two of the tracks built by the Barnes's had become well trodden highways. The two others had fallen into disuse.

'That would explain why we couldn't find the configuration on the map,' she muttered to herself. 'But now we know where to start looking: Nottingham County, here we come!'

Mafdet, who was cuddled up on the end of the couch, apparently shared in her joy: the cat was purring so loudly the whole sofa was vibrating gently. Glancing up at the clock, however, Sydney suddenly realised it was ten to midnight and Preston and Nigel still had not returned from their shenanigans.

She shrugged off the concern that suddenly pricked in her chest. Sydney was fairly confident nothing _too_ bad would happen. Despite the golf beret incident, she'd made sure that Preston, and everybody else on the invite list, knew that bones would be broken if her fiancé was in any way damaged - physically, mentally or emotionally. Surely there was relatively little to be concerned about? Then again, they _were_ men - unsupervised by females, and thus utterly helpless.

Yawning widely, she ran her fingers down the length of Mafdet's silky fur, watching affectionately as the feline undulated with pleasure and regarded her back with heavy-lidded green eyes. The cat was comfortably moulded between two cushions, on the verge of blissful sleep. 'I think I'll join you,' murmured Sydney, as she teased her pet's feather-soft ears.

Pulling the upholstery in around her, Sydney scooped up her legs so she was curled almost as tightly as the cat, and then returned her attention to the book on Nottingham County. Maybe she could find a bit more information about the Barnes homestead before the Bailey boys returned…

……………………………….

Glasses clinked, the wine flowed, lights flashed and laughter roared. Conversation, however, had long since run dry. At least, all narrative coherence had evaporated from Nigel's perspective on life.

Leather. All Nigel could see now was flesh and leather. The woman was wearing a black leather bustier and carried a long, lively black whip, which flicked around him like a buzzing fly. She 'wanted to play,' so she said. But Nigel didn't like it. Nigel liked the wine.

The wine was dark scarlet, smoky and soothing; it was good wine, he was sure, although it had started to taste sort of vinegary. Still, he was somehow convinced that the wine would rescue him, take him away and hide him from the terrible woman and all those funny creatures looming above with nasty, pointy antlers…

He seemed to have lost the use of his legs, so the wine was his only hope. The wine was like Sydney. Mmmmmmm. Ssshhhhydney…..

The roaring around him suddenly swelled like the waves on the ocean, black leather flashed, Nigel squeaked.

At least, somebody did. 'What's that noise?' thought Nigel vacantly, as his mind began to float serenely away from his petrified, bodily self. Then everything became a blur for a long, long time.

………………………………………………………….

The first thing Nigel registered was a tall, pinewood tree. Lots and lots of trees! He gazed up to the leafy heavens, lurched to the left, steadied himself to the right, and looked down to the ground. His feet were still enough, he decided. It was the world, not him, that was spinning like a merry-go-round.

'Time to go,' said a disembodied voice in his mind. 'Places to go, things to do, people to see…'

'Oh, hold on,' said another voice, in a morose undertone. 'I think I might just be sick!'

He crumpled to his knees, his forehead sinking towards the soft forest floor. His stomach cramped, twisting painfully as the bile swelled and rushed to his throat. Nigel retched twice, and choked, his head dropping forward in utter despair. Then he flung his face upward, fighting gravity with an effort, and took a gulp of cold air. It was a poor substitute when water was pleaded for, but it sufficed to slap back his will to move. He shuffled backwards on all fours, until his bottom jammed against bark and he finally found himself sitting, mouth open, staring up through a disorganised lattice of fringe into the soaring branches above.

'How did I get here?' This time the whine was unmistakably his own, his lips forming words that echoed in his ears. 'Wasn't I at the circus a moment ago? All I remember is the lion tamer, and then I enjoyed it immensely when somebody slapped the clown… then I decided to get the train home to bed. But I don't think I'm anywhere near Surbiton! I'm certainly not five miles from my parents' house.'

He wiped his mouth and forehead with his shirt cuff, feeling vaguely relieved he was not in respectable company. Exhaling slowly, his previously muddied vision and mind began to focus on the world around him: trees, trees and more trees - American pinewood. It occurred to him that he was in North America - he'd been here for years! This was _not _the Surrey Hills, it was an empty wilderness that went on for miles and miles and miles. Just how far _had_ he wandered from the road?

Suppressing an incoherent, growing terror, Nigel placed one hand against the bark of the tree and tried to raise himself to his feet. The world lurched again, and his head still seemed ridiculously heavy. He raised a hand his throbbing brow: exactly how much alcohol had he drunk? And why was that creature staring at him?

'Aaagh!' Nigel wailed in horror and ducked behind the tree, his movement remarkably rapid given his delicate condition. He was, indeed, being watched. It was a stag. A tall, dignified beast, with light brown fur and a snowy white throat; it was impossibly noble and tall, with antlers that stretched like the ever-spreading roots of an oak, rather than the simple split of a fork.

Catching his breath, Nigel stared in awe, alarm mingling with curiosity. The disembodied voice in his head returned again: 'It's quite all right, Nigel, he wants you to follow him.'

'He does' said Nigel, out loud. 'What the bloody hell for?'

……………………………………………………………………………

Sydney awoke with a start and a gasp. The dim-burning reading lamp flooded her vision like an exploding white heat, before fading in tandem with her calming pulse. Mafdet, snuggled against the warmth of her middle, mewed and stretched. Sydney reached a tense hand to caress her. That had been a weird dream!

Not surprisingly, given her bedtime reading, she'd been dreaming about Isaac Barnes, wandering through the woods of New England, the world around him swimming as he staggered forth in a drunken stupor. She watched him lumber onwards, blindly oblivious to the baying beasts in the undergrowth, and the arrows that whizzed inches from his ears. Formless as the wind, and strangely fearful for his fate, she had followed him until he found that which he'd forgotten he sought – The Stag.

But rather than a sleeping killer, the young man found the crumbling headstone of a grave. And then, as he turned to her, she realised he was not the 17th-century settler, unknown and unloved by her. It was Nigel… Nigel!

Snapping out of her dreamlike state into full consciousness, Syd's eyes flew to the clock. It was 6 a.m.! Hauling herself to her feet, and sending an angry Mafdet scattering, she rushed straight to the hall. She knew the house empty, even before she checked the bedrooms: no Nigel, and no Preston. She could simply sense that they weren't there.

After calls to both their cell phones drew switched-off silence, Sydney's anger began to bubble. Visions of Nigel, drunk and lost, being seduced by a stripper, or tied to a lamppost, devoid of his outer clothing or worse, bombarded her mind, interwoven with less predictable images of him being chased through extensive woodlands by a large stag. 'Damn you Preston,' she muttered. She was going to have to go and find them, and she had a nasty feeling that at least one of them was going to have hell to pay!

Pulling on a jacket over quickly thrown-on black clothes, she kicked the door open aggressively. The man standing on the other side, on the verge of knocking, stumbled backwards down the steps, and lifted a startled hand to his chest. Preston, who stared up at a furious and dishevelled Sydney Fox, resembled a stricken deer in the headlights of an accelerating Land Rover.

Sydney couldn't even be bothered to seize him by the collar. 'Where's Nigel!' she hollered. 'I swear Preston, if you've allowed anything bad to happen to him, this will be the last dawn you'll ever see!'

Preston goggled speechlessly as Sydney brandished an accusing finger at the blood-red sunrise. 'Where is he?' she demanded, her voice low, guttural.

Realising there was no easy way to break the following news, Preston gulped hard and choked out the words: 'I… we… lost him,' he squeaked.

Sydney was now at the bottom of the steps, once again stabbing him mercilessly with the acid glare of her eyes. It was a miracle, mused Preston fearfully, that she hadn't yet throttled him.

'Lost him? What the heck do you mean?'

'I meant exactly what I said,' whined Preston. 'No - please don't hit me! Nothing bad happened! Nigel got… quite drunk, but that's hardly a mean feat, is it? We ditched all the silly pub golf stuff as I promised and, I swear, after the fifth glass of Beaujolais, I bought him a lemonade - also like I promised! Nobody thought any worse of him for it, and we had a nice, friendly boy's night out. I was going to bring him home to bed by midnight but…but…' Preston ran his fingers wearily over his face, drawing attention to a swelling, green-black bruise that encircled his right eye. Sydney noticed this, but was far too preoccupied to care.

'But?' She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. 'So what happened next?'

Preston groaned. 'It wasn't my fault!' he continued. 'I was about to hail a cab - or whatever one does to get a lift home around here - when I spotted a rather jolly looking fast food restaurant and a chap coming out with a delicious looking burger! Now, you know how it is when one's been, err, 'on the booze.' One usually gets a little peckish! Anyway, Nigel was completely blotto by this time - I think he believed we'd been to the circus in Hyde Park, because he kept ranting on about finding an underground station and getting back to Waterloo before we missed the last train! So, I propped him up against the wall, told him I'd just be a second, and dashed in to grab a take-away. When I came out he was…gone.'

Sydney gawped at him in disbelief. 'Nigel was _gone_? How…where?' Her fingers curled, itching to seize the elder brother and shake him senseless. 'In that state he could have been mugged, kidnapped… anything!'

'He probably just wandered off,' pleaded Preston, shuffling a few steps back. 'He could still walk…sort of!'

'_Sort of_? I can't believe I'm hearing this, Preston. Why didn't you call me immediately? Why hasn't _he_ called?'

Preston winced guiltily. 'I, um, took his phone and other valuables away from him in case he lost them. Besides, I thought you'd keep calling him all evening to keep tabs and, well, it _was_ a bachelor party! So he can't phone either of us and, well, _I_ didn't want to disturb you. I thought he'd just fallen asleep behind a bin or something and that I'd find him before now. Besides, I knew how you'd…react.' He took several more steps backwards, as Sydney's anger visibly intensified.

Preston was saved, however, from the fast approaching violent outburst by the loud 'bbbrrriiiing!' of Sydney's retro white telephone. She raced back into her hall and grabbed it.

'Hello? Nigel?'

There was a moment of agonising silence. Then the answer came in small, wan voice: 'Sydney… is that you? Is that really you?'

'Yes! Nigel, it's me. Are you okay? Where ARE you?'

There was another traumatic pause. Visions of a gun being held Nigel's head flashed through her mind, and imaginings of the rough voice of an enemy demanding ransom echoed soundlessly in her ears. Preston's guilty, pleading eyes locked on to hers, and she knew he feared the same thing. But it was Nigel who answered.

'I don't know where I am!' came the wail. 'I'm in the middle of nowhere. I've lost my glasses, my wallet, all my credit cards… I don't know where my mobile is. I just found this phone box and I had some small change in my pocket. Oh, Syd, please come and find me!'

'I will,' reassured Sydney, sensing from the slight slurring in her fiancé's speech that he was still a tad inebriated. 'Now try to think rationally. You can't have walked that far. Surely you've seen a landmark you recognise?'

The immediate response from the end of the phone sounded somewhere between a moan and a sob. 'I…I thought I was in London,' lamented Nigel. 'I think I got on a train and I fell asleep. Then I got off… somewhere. For some obscure reason I then believed I was in Surrey and that I could walk home to my parents house, so I began to walk and walk…and…walk…'

Sydney grimaced, but kept her worry silent. Nigel could truly be anywhere in a vast area of north-east America. 'Look around you,' she said calmly. 'Is there anything distinctive about the landscape?'

There was another moment of quiet as Nigel scanned frantically around him. 'Not really,' he said mournfully. 'Just trees and roads.'

'Roads!' said Sydney, concealing her agitation and she grasped at straws. 'Is there more than one road? Are you at a crossroads or something?'

'I'm at some sort of fork,' answered Nigel. 'The highway splits into two, and there were some deserted diggers and trucks a little way back – some sort of roadworks - and there are a couple of dirt tracks leading off on either side.' He trailed off, his glimmer of optimism fading. 'Oh bloody hell! I could be anywhere! Why did I follow that stupid deer…'

Sydney's gut twinged: 'Deer? What deer? Was it a stag?'

The phone bleeped. Nigel panicked. 'Sydney! The time's running out…'

'Damn,' thought Syd, and shouted 'Just stay there, Nigel! I'll find you!'

Then the line went dead.

**Thanks for reading. Sorry there wasn't too much too much shippiness in that chapter. Please review, and I'll get them reunited and this thing finished before I go on holiday :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimers: as ever.**

**Thanks for those reviews!**

'Just stay there, Nigel! I'll find you!' shouted Sydney.

Then the line went dead.

'Oh hell!' moaned Preston. 'I suppose he hadn't a clue where he was?'

'No,' said Sydney bluntly. 'Not a clue.'

'Oh well,' said Preston, venturing a half smile. 'At least it sounds like he's in one piece. All we have to do is find him - and you're good at finding things, right? You're the world's foremost Relic Hunter, and all that?'

Sydney was not much interested in his babbling. She pushed straight by and slammed her front door, with little regard for Preston's coat tail or limbs, then unlocked a car parked outside in the street. 'Where are you going?' asked Preston lethargically. 'Surely you haven't worked out where he is already?'

'Let's just say I've got a hunch.' Lingering just a moment before she jumped in and drove off, she added: 'are you coming?'

Preston looked at her blankly for a moment, torn between his conscience and a desire for breakfast, before starting towards the car and climbing in the passenger side. 'Where are we going?'

'Nottingham County!' Sydney opened the glove compartment and thrust of modern map of the region into his hand. 'And on the way I need you to find every Y-junction on the map, located in a wooded area… preferably one where there is new road construction nearby.'

'Why on earth…?' began Preston incredulously.

'Because we're going to find Nigel!' barked Sydney with some aggression. 'And because the woman you just called to the world's foremost Relic Hunter says so! And because you might just be able to earn back enough forgiveness for me not to give you a matching pair of black eyes, and bruises in places you never knew could hurt! Now… get map reading!'

…………………………………….

'We should hit the junction in about a mile,' said Sydney.

Preston nodded wearily, keeping his sleepy eyes fixed on the road ahead. After the first three hours driving, he'd insisted on taking over – Syd let him, mainly because she was itching to have a look at the map. She got the impression that cartography was not one of the elder Bailey's talents.

Sure enough, she'd quickly narrowed Preston's forty-two options down to one: a Y- junction in a wooded area, where the split in the road was intersected by a dotted line: a new highway, slicing through the countryside, was due for completion in 2009. That was where Nigel was - the diggers, the trees, the Y-junction, Nottingham County - she just knew it.

'He'd better bloody be there,' grumbled Preston. 'I'm going to kill him if he's wandered off!'

'_You_ lost him!' Sydney shot back quickly. 'I just hope it was worth it! Why did you do it, Preston? Why organise a bachelor party for the brother you constantly argue with, despite barely seeing him once a year?'

'Oh, I don't know,' sighed Preston, his exhaustion unleashing a sudden rush of honesty. 'When he didn't ask me to be his Best Man I was hardly surprised. I know how Nigel…_feels_ about me. But when I heard there was an opening for the bachelor party organiser, I suppose I saw it as an opportunity to get involved, to see his life, meet his friends…'

'You could have done that at the wedding. While try and humiliate him?'

'I didn't go out of my way to humiliate my brother, really!' Sydney discerned Preston's bout of honesty had passed. 'Besides, it _is_ tradition. I would have felt I'd let him down if I _hadn't_ organised a Stag Night! And I think he enjoyed it, really he did. Before he got, um, plastered, he was having a great time chatting to his university friends. _I_ got on like a house on fire with your friend Stewie - lovely guy! A revered professor at the University of Northeast South Africa, you know - he asked me on a study visit! I didn't like that surly Lloyd fellow, though…'

'No, I can't see you and Derek Lloyd hitting it off,' smirked Sydney. 'Was it him that gave you that black eye?'

Preston flinched, lifting his fingers to his injured face. 'I'd almost forgotten that,' he mumbled. 'No, it wasn't Derek…'

'Hey! Pull over!'

'Wha…? Oh, good God, there he is!'

Spying a dark haired figure trotting towards them along the grass verge, and waving his arms wildly, Preston sluggishly applied the brakes, and the car juddered to a halt. Before the wheels had stopped moving, Sydney hurled open the door and leapt straight for Nigel.

'Sydney! I knew it, I knew you'd come…'

He thwacked his arms around her, and planted a moist kiss on her parted lips, with such enthusiasm that he nearly sent her tumbling backwards. Enveloped in his keen embrace, Sydney lifted her hands to cup his face and stared at him for a second, relief mingling with adoration and amusement.

This was _not_ the bedraggled, dejected little creature that she had expected to pick up from the curb. Yes, Nigel looked tired, his skin an unhealthy shade of pale green, and strands of his damp fringe were plastered to his forehead. His clothes were splattered with numerous shades of spludge and mud. He was also wearing a large pair of Rudolf-style reindeer horns, attached to an Alice-band headpiece, which pushed back tufts of his hair into sticky-up clumps. Despite all this, however, he was beaming at her as if this was one of the most wonderful moments of their life together; he was simply buzzing with excitement.

'How the hell _did_ you know she'd come?' asked Preston, averting his eyes from their passion as he emerged from the car, and wondering for the umpteenth time how his ridiculous younger brother managed to evoke such heated ardour from this beautiful, and apparently intelligent woman. 'It seemed like a hell of a long shot to me…'

They both ignored him. 'You found it, didn't you?' asked Sydney breathlessly.

Nigel nodded, uncurling one arm from her waist and slipping a grubby hand into his pocket. He brought out a truly 'honking great' diamond, which sparkled radiantly in the sunlight, capturing all the hues of the rainbow in its icy heart.

Preston, who had been bustling over to see, gasped as the reflective light flashed in his face. 'My God! What _have_ you found, Podge?'

'Elizabeth I's diamond?' asked Sydney, lifting her eyes, dazzled and delighted to Nigel's enraptured smile.

'I think so,' he gushed. 'It was in a little chest, behind the remains of the headstone. After the money in the phone ran out, I nearly despaired but then I saw the…' Nigel dipped his voice to an undertone. 'Then I saw _The Stag_ again. I swear, he had shown me the way to the roadside phone and then he led me to the grave…'

'What _is_ he twittering on about?' butted in Preston. 'He is obviously still drunk! Nigel - did it cross your mind that you might be seeing your own reflection? Have you _seen_ yourself?'

Nigel scowled at his brother. 'What are _you_ on about, Preston?'

'Uh…he's talking about this.' Sydney began carefully untangling the band with the deer horns, tugging Nigel's hair as little she could.

'Eh…ow!' Sydney showed him the offending headgear. 'You bastard!' yelled Nigel, as Preston sniggered into his sleeve.

'You really were quite The Stag!' guffawed Preston. 'Mind you, we _all_ had the horns to wear. Although you were the only one who insisted on keeping them on once the party was over! But, hey-ho, it's all over now.' Betwixt his mirth, he eyeballed the diamond hungrily. 'I wouldn't mind a look at that shiny stone. After all, you'd never have found it, if it hadn't been for me.'

Nigel shuddered with contempt, but didn't answer, instead handing the diamond to Sydney for safekeeping.

'I don't care what contribution you've made to this hunt, you're not taking the stone back in triumph to the British Museum!' barked Sydney, her harsh tone leaving no room for argument. 'It belongs in the Tower of London with the rest of the Crown Jewels. And anything else will go to the Pilgrim Fathers Museum.' Turning her back on the older brother, she grinned at Nigel. 'Can you show me where the grave is?'

'With pleasure,' said Nigel, a flickering smile returning to his lips. He wasn't going to let Preston spoil the thrill of _this_ moment…

………………………………..

'Look,' said Nigel, pointing a shaky finger to a dirt track that branched off from one of the forked roads, 'and…over there.' He swerved to indicate another path, jutting off the corresponding highway. 'It dawned on me that, all together, they do resemble the horns of a stag… sort of. The animal led me right to this very spot, and then vanished!'

Sydney was already crouching at the crumbling rock that had once been a grave marker.

'The road builders would have just bulldozed straight through this without a thought,' she mumbled to herself. As Nigel knelt down beside her, she took and squeezed his hand. 'Somebody - some_thing_ - wanted the secrets hidden here to be saved before it was too late. Maybe it was the same spirit that led Isaac to his sleeping victim?'

'Possibly,' conjectured Nigel. 'Or it could have been that The Stag himself couldn't bear to see his beloved Queen's diamond crushed forever.' He shivered at the notion that the ghost of a killer could have been his salvation.

'Or maybe you were just blind drunk and this is one hell of a coincidence!' interjected Preston cheerfully, stomping over to behind the gravestone. 'Are you going to dig up anything more, then?'

'Bugger off,' growled Nigel, as Sydney tightened her grip on his hand. Preston grunted indignantly but, seeing the intimacy of their stance, suddenly felt like an unwanted appendage. He turned on his heels and sauntered back towards the road.

As Sydney brushed the dirt from another, larger chest, Nigel outlined the remains of an inscription in the stone. He read it out loud as he traced it:

'_Her lyeth The Stag_

_From whose demise_

_A people sprung forth_

_And prospereth still._

That's quite a claim of historical significance!'

'So is this,' said Sydney, cracking the rust-worn lock and flinging open the larger chest. She pulled out a large piece of decaying wood, shaped like half of a curving moon.

'What you think it is?' asked Nigel.

'I'm guessing it is part of _The Speedwell's_ rudder!' said Sydney excitedly. 'If we can authenticate it, this will be proof that The Stag sabotaged the Pilgrim Father's ship.' She held a browning and rotting piece of paper, emblazoned with the red wax seal of the King of England. 'And _this_ is the commission from James - to carry out the dirty deed!'

'Amazing!' Nigel folded his hands gently over hers, so they held the document out and read it together. 'But not as amazing as you, Syd,' he whispered, his thumb slipping down to caress the soft skin of her wrist. 'How _did_ you know where I was?'

'Oh, you know, a little research, a little intuition… and a little divine intervention,' she replied, the tenderness of his touch setting her emotions spinning and mind racing. She been so determined to follow her hunch and find Nigel, and the relic to boot, she'd not given her fear a moment to breath - her most wrenching nightmare that he could be hurt, lost or gone. Now that she had him back, relief flooded her senses, along with an inkling of her oft denied apprehension.

She slowly pulled away, put down the paper and turned to face him.

'_You_ found the relics, Nigel. All I wanted was to find was the man I love.' She rested her palms on his shoulders. 'Never leave me, Nigel - I've lived with loss, I've learned to survive without people I love, but I can _never_ live without you.'

Nigel's eyes widened earnestly. 'Me neither, but you know that. You…know… everything…'

Their lips captured each other's, as their bodies entwined together. Pounding adrenalin rendered them heedless of the violated grave beneath them, the ancient relics at their knees, and the jealous brother who observed them from the shadows.

The moment, like so many in their lives, was perfect. How long had it been now, Sydney wondered, since he hadn't become flustered at her initmacy? How long since she'd realised that the brief sensation of his fingertips could ignite a fire-ball of desire within her, and liquefy her very soul? Hugging him tightly, Sydney's heart lurched with a sudden terror. There lives were _too_ perfect, _too_ good: they were still young, beautiful, in love; they had achieved much, yet ambition still drove them, made life fun, exciting, each day afresh. The day after tomorrow, moreover, they would become man and wife in the eyes of the world, at a romantic beautiful castle; Nigel would look like a prince stepping out of every little girls dream. But the world was a dangerous, deadly place, and history reminded her every day that life was ephemeral. Such happiness as theirs could only be transient, fragile, too easily lost.

'Never leave me, Nigel,' breathed Sydney. 'Never!' Her eyes met his, and detected smouldering desire intermingled with weary confusion.

'What is it?' he asked softly.

Her thin-set lips found a smile. She brushed her fingers through his hair, tidying it a little, and then traced down his cheek, smudging away a blotch of muck that marred his complexion.

'He's here _now_, he's gorgeous and he's mine,' thought Sydney, swallowing what seemed like uncharacteristic sentiment. 'Whatever happens, I'll have no regrets…'

Nigel still regarded her questioningly, endearingly.

'Oh, it's nothing,' she said after a moment. 'I am just thinking how wonderful our life together will be…will _continue_ to be. Come on!'

She jumped to her feet, hauling him up with her. 'Let's get home. We'll take the chests and come back to document the rest tomorrow.'

'Good plan,' agreed Nigel, relieved at her raising spirits. 'I'm absolutely shattered! I think I'll have a snack and go straight to bed.'

'Not quite,' smiled Sydney, brushing down his jacket. 'As much as I love you, Nigel, you really _are_ in need of a bath! And I'm personally going to make sure that your back is scrubbed properly…'

………………………………..

'So,' said Sydney as they bolted along the highway, one hand resting easily on the wheel. 'What _did_ you guys get up to last night?'

Nigel furrowed his brow, fighting a vicious headache in his effort to recall. 'Um… to be honest, I don't remember much. I suppose I drank rather a lot.'

'You could say that!' interrupted Preston. 'But, come on Nigel, you've got to admit you had a good time. Before you wandered off, that is.'

Nigel shrugged. 'I vaguely recollect chatting to a couple of nice chaps from the mediaeval history department, and sampling a fine bottle of Beaujolais… after that everything is incoherent. I have a memory of, um black leather, and of some sort of moment of violent, subliminal release…'

'Yes, well!' retorted Preston. 'I know all too well what _that_ was. You went absolutely ballistic when I tried to take your reindeer horns off you!'

Sydney's grin spread from ear to ear. 'So that's how you got your black eye, is it? Go Nigel!'

Nigel twisted to his brother in the backseat and, looking at him for the first time since their reunion, spotted the shiny bruise around his right eye. 'Oh,' he said, biting his lip to suppress a giggle. 'I'm terribly sorry. I really wasn't in control of my faculties! Whatever could possess me to attack my beloved elder brother in such a way?' Turning to Syd, he exploded into a laugh. 'Well, actually, I can think of a few things!'

He glanced back at Preston and was surprised, and a little disappointed, to see his sibling didn't look too angry.

'It was all worth it,' said Preston snidely, 'to see you squeal when that leather-clad dancing girl flicked you with her whip…oooomph!'

They all flew violently forward in their seats, as Sydney slammed hard on the brakes, stopping the vehicle dead in the middle of the empty highway. She turned to Preston, aghast. 'The _who_ did _what_?'

Preston rapidly began to regret his unguarded admission. 'Err…well I didn't think you'd mind too much. You're a worldly woman, Sydney - in the nicest possible way, of course. Besides, once you'd banned the pub golf, I still wanted Nigel to have a memorable send-off, and I thought some hired entertainment might, um, cater to his tastes.'

'To my tastes?' stuttered Nigel. 'What the hell do you mean?' He appealed to Sydney, wary that she might be about to slap them both. 'Honestly! I have no recollection of this.'

'Don't worry,' she replied, and he detected the glimmer of amusement in her eyes. 'I don't blame you.' She turned back to Preston, summoning up the pretence of genuine fury. 'But I would like to know what you mean - catering to _Nigel's_ _tastes_?'

'Oh, um, well,' ventured Preston bravely. 'You _are_ a commanding woman, Professor Fox. What _do_ you two get up to in the bedroom?'

'That, you will never know, Preston Bailey!' She regarded him with pity as much as anger. 'All I will say is that your brother is a fantastic lover, and he knows exactly the right time to take the lead.' She rubbed her fiancé's thigh affectionately. 'Right, Nigel?'

'Right,' mumbled Nigel, before swallowing his general bewilderment to cast his brother a superior glare: 'Right!'

'Right,' confirmed Sydney, with a resonant air of authority. 'That's all cleared up then! Now let's get home - before something possesses me to whip your brother's backside right back over the other side of the Atlantic!'

As Preston squirmed, Nigel laid his throbbing head on the shoulder of the woman he loved. Sydney, quietly contented, placed her foot on the accelerator and headed back towards the city.

**Thanks for reading. Please review this story - I might just continue it with Sydney and Nigel's wedding… :) Katy x**


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